


Well Respected Men

by BiP



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - It's a Terrible Life (Supernatural), Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiP/pseuds/BiP
Summary: Written for SPN Summergen on LJ (yes stuff still happens on the LJ!) as a gift for birdsofthesoul. Prompt: Dean Smith and Sam Wesson abscond for a life of hunting without tendering their resignations. How does hunting work in a Prius?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Supernatural Summergen 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [birdsofthesoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofthesoul/gifts).



They burst through the door of Dean’s apartment, still high on adrenaline. Dean grabs a couple of bottles of water from the fridge, and tosses one to Sam. “Man, I gotta tell you, I've never had so much fun in my life.”  
  
“Me neither.” Sam isn’t lying; even in his dreams it wasn’t like this. Those were...terrifying. This was different.  
  
“Was a hell of a workout too, wasn't it?” Dean flexes an arm that isn’t used to more than kettlebells.  
  
“You’ve got quite a swing there,” Sam laughs, then he sets his bottle down, looking Dean in the eye. He says, “We should keep doing this.”  
  
Dean raises an eyebrow, tilts his head in a way that Sam knows, he shouldn’t know this, he just met this guy.  
  
“I mean it. There’ve gotta be other ghosts out there. We could help a lot of people.” He ducks his head, unsure about how this part is going to go, if Dean will just blow him off entirely, get creeped out again. “Um. Confession. Remember those dreams I told you about with the ghosts? With you. We were these, like, hunters, and we were friends. More like brothers, really-” He can feel Dean’s almost visible flinch, but keeps going. “What if - what if that's who we really are? I mean, you saw us back there, working together. The ghost was scrambling people's brains. What if it scrambled ours?”  
  
Dean has pulled back, arms crossed. “That's insane. I know who I am. I’m Dean Smith, Director of Sales and Marketing at the biggest b- i- uh. Whatever Sandover does. Anway. I have a family - my folks are Bob and Ellen, I have a little sister named Jo. I don’t have-” Dean falters again. “I don’t have a brother.” Like he’s suddenly trying to convince himself. “What about your family?”  
  
Sam startles at the question, a flash of pain lancing through his head; a grainy vision of a burning home, a sleek black car, a gruff, angry man. He shakes it off and ignores the last part of Dean’s question.  
  
“Is it crazy, though? Think about it for just one second. Don’t you feel you were meant for more than this? And yes I know how you feel about destiny but come on, Dean. This life? Sandover? This isn’t you.” He gestures around the sterile apartment.  
  
“You don’t know me,” Dean says, but he turns away and is quiet for a long time, staring blankly out at the city. Sam sits on his hands, bites his tongue - he knows, like he knows that this is right, that this is their life, that he needs to let Dean come to this on his own.  
  
Finally, Dean shifts. “This is crazy talk. Like, quit our jobs and hit the road? Eat in crappy roadside diners? Be the new GhostFacers? Hunt things? Save people?” The words are trying to be sarcastic, but the tone is almost hopeful, as though Dean has let down a huge weight.  
  
Sam tries to rein in his excitement, and fails. “Exactly!”  
  
Like he’s been trying to stuff all of this into a spreadsheet, Dean asks brusquely, “How would we even live? How would we get by? I mean, I’ve got a pretty loaded 401k, and some money saved, but-”  
  
Sam interrupts, sure he’s won. “That's all just details!”  
  
Dean blows out a frustrated breath. “Details are everything. You don't wanna go fighting ghosts without any health insurance, or sleep in some shitty motel every night. We’d have to do some research, start with local hunts, live here for now until we start moving out further into the world…”  
  
He keeps talking, but Sam’s adrenaline rush - from both the ghost, and convincing Dean - has disappeared. Dean is on board, and Sam is suddenly very, very tired. He closes his eyes, and lets Dean’s planning voice (he shouldn’t know that voice) wash over him.  
  
  
  
In the morning, he blinks awake, confused, to the smell of coffee and bacon. This isn’t his dingy little studio. Where the hell-  
  
“Rise and shine, Sammy, we’ve got work to do.” Dean Smith. Oh, shit, that’s right, Dean! His...no, not his brother.  
  
Sam rubs his hand over his face, trying to wipe away the confusion. “I asked you not to call me that,” he mumbles. It seems important.  
  
“Whatever. It just fits you somehow.” Dean hands him a cup of coffee - a rich, dark thing with - he sips - rice milk? Ew. But the coffee is delicious, so he’ll manage. “I thought you didn’t eat bacon,” he says, snagging a piece.  
  
“It’s fake. Gotta stay healthy, Sammy, especially if we’re going to be out hunting monsters without health insurance.”  
  
“So you’re in?” Sam sets down the bacon, which doesn’t taste anything like as good as it smells.  
  
Dean nods. “I made some lists.” He hands a copy to Sam, who laughs.  
  
“Of course you did. In triplicate?”  
  
“No, just one for each of us.” Dean is completely serious. Sam looks the paper over. On one side is a shopping list cribbed straight from the pages of GhostFacers: shotguns, shells, rock salt, iron fireplace pokers, lighter fluid, matches, first aid kits. On the other side, there are what Sam guesses must be possible ghosts - Hunts, didn’t the GhostFacers call them? - from Cleveland to Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  
  
“Sioux Falls where your folks live?” he asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean answers. “I still think we should stay local while we’re getting the hang of it to save money, but I need to talk to them about...all of this. I really don’t want what you’re saying to be real, and calling them doesn’t seem enough. Might as well work our way there to start with.”  
  
“Seems fair to me,” Sam says. “I’m ready when you are.”  
  
“No you’re not, you smell and you’ve slept in your Sandover polo, and that color looks awful on you. Don’t you have anything you need to do at your place, give notice at work, anything?”  
  
Sam shakes his head. “No, I already kind of gave notice.” He laughs, thinking of the scene he made. “I could pack some clothes in about 5 minutes if we can stop real quick. What about you?”  
  
“I - “ Dean stops, shakes his head as though he can’t believe he’s about to say this. “I’m not going back either.” He barks a laugh that’s anything but amused, and runs his hand down his face. “I’ll never work again, and I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking, but - I feel like we could change things. Save people.”  
  
Sam nods. “I get it. Let’s hit the road, then.”  
  
  
Their first hitch comes twenty-five minutes later, when Sam tries folding his tall frame into Dean’s silver Prius.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I couldn't just leave it there? But I couldn't go much farther, either. So here's what I have so far and it may never go anywhere else but.

They spend the next seventeen hours getting to know each other, in the way that only complete strangers crammed into a small space can. Sam learns that while Dean appears to be very chill and in control, he will spend the entirety of Iowa screaming at alt-right radio. Sam is uncertain if Dean or Michael Savage will have a heart attack first. For his part, Dean learns that Sam should absolutely not be allowed to eat anything from a gas station, if Dean wants to continue breathing. Maybe no eating at all. He’ll have to get the Prius detailed immediately. 

They also find that they have things in common - more than they would have thought. Sports are easy; somehow despite neither of them being from Kansas, they are both Jayhawks fans. They’re both runners, although Dean’s more likely to spend time on the treadmill than the actual pavement. They both feel like they’re made for something different, although Dean continues to insist he doesn’t believe in destiny, in fact says it like he’s just tasted something nasty every time. 

Luckily, they both handle long road trips well. They pull into Sioux Falls around 8.30 pm, as the sun is setting. Dean pulls up to a quiet suburban house in a quiet suburban neighborhood.. 

“What the hell am I supposed to be telling them, Sammy?” he asks, sounding suddenly unsure. Sam doesn’t bristle at the nickname. 

“I wish I knew, man. Just, I guess, see what they say about believing in ghosts?” He kindly doesn’t mention the “what if they aren’t your real parents” angle. 

Sam doesn’t know what he was expecting (yes he does, yes he does - a rough-looking man in a trucker cap and a salvage yard they played in, learned to hunt in) but it’s not the man who opens the door. Or it is, but it’s not. 

Bob Smith is a solid man who looks like he should be a mechanic, but he’s apparently a history professor. 

Ellen, on the other hand, is exactly what Sam was expecting - motherly, but brusque and no nonsense. 


End file.
